Suddenly, one of the telephones on his right gave an insistent beep. He picked it up. ‘Can I come in, sir, to run through the day’s appointments?’ asked Gerry, his temporary secretary, who came with his temporary office.

  ‘Sure. If there’s coffee on the hob bring us in a couple of mugs.’

  ‘Mugs, sir?’

  The acting Chief grinned. ‘I’m not going to copy all of the boss’s ways. You use a cup if you like, but I’ll have mine in a mug; touch of milk, no sugar. I need a serious caffeine fix.’

  Within a minute the door opened and Gerry Crossley stepped into the room, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits, and with a folder tucked under his arm. The young man placed a mug on a coaster by Skinner’s right hand, and made to take a seat across the desk.

  ‘Pull your chair round to the side,’ said the DCC. ‘You’re bloody miles away sitting over there.’

  Gerry nodded and did as he had been asked. Skinner looked at him appraisingly. From the day on which he had come to work for Sir James, he had made an impression with his neatness, his efficiency and the speed with which he got things done. Yet even in such enlightened times, a male secretary was still regarded as a shade peculiar, and Skinner had overheard the odd remark calling Crossley’s sexuality into question.

  In fact, Gerry was married to a public relations executive, who was expecting their first child.

  He opened the folder. ‘Today’s business, sir. At ten o’clock, you have two pupils from St Augustine’s High School coming in to receive Certificates of Commendation for Bravery. Their names are Hugh McQuillan and Andrew Byrne, and they tackled a man who was trying to snatch an old lady’s bag.’

  ‘Did they detain him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He pleaded guilty in Edinburgh Sheriff Court and was imprisoned for eighteen months. The boys’ head teacher proposed them for recognition, through our community relations section.’

  ‘Which reports to ACC Elder,’ said Skinner. ‘In that case it’s only right that Jim makes the award in the Chief’s absence, rather than me. Brief him, please, Gerry. Right, what’s next?’

  ‘At ten-forty-five, sir, you’re scheduled to receive a Commonwealth visitor, Mr Kwame Ankrah, from Ghana. He’s a senior police officer on a Foreign Office-sponsored tour of the UK, looking at methods in this country.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘We’ve been asked to give him a briefing on the force, sir, with the emphasis on criminal investigation.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘It’s scheduled to include lunch, sir, in the Senior Officers’ dining room.

  ‘Who’s accompanying him?’

  ‘Mr David Seward, sir, from the Police Division in Scottish Office, and Miss Hilda Thomson, from the Information Directorate.’

  The DCC frowned. ‘I suppose I’d better do that one myself. Ask Andy Martin to join me, though.’

  ‘Very good, sir. The party is scheduled to depart at two p.m. After that you’re due in Galashiels at three p.m. for young PC Brown’s funeral.’

  ‘That’s going to be tight.’

  ‘Traffic say that it should be easily enough time, sir, as long as you leave at two sharp.’

  Skinner sighed. ‘In that case, I’ll have to receive them in uniform, because it doesn’t sound as if I’ll have time to change after they’ve gone.’

  Gerry nodded. ‘That sounds like a good idea, sir.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, son, wearing uniform is always a fucking awful idea. Any evening engagements?’

  ‘No, sir, not tonight. There’s one on Thursday, though. The City Council is launching a new Zero Tolerance campaign, and you’re invited.’

  Skinner shook his head emphatically. ‘One thing you should know about me. I never take on any engagements on Thursday evenings. That’s Lads’ Night. No, pass the details of the event to DCI Rose, out in Haddington, and ask her if she’d represent the force.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Tell you what, Gerry, why don’t you cut down on your quota of “sirs”. I’m not really a very formal guy. I look for performance rather than deference, and you have no worries on that score.’

  The acting Chief Constable was immaculate, in full uniform as his secretary announced the Ghanaian visitor, and his party, at exactly quarter to eleven. While Skinner never felt comfortable in official dress, on the occasions on which it was required, he always ensured that his trousers had knife-edge creases and that his silver buttons were sparkling. He stood straight and tall as he shook hands with the stocky African, showing him to an armchair with exactly the right mix of courtesy and authority.

  Beside him, Andy Martin was edgy, trying as hard as he could not to show his impatience at the interruption to his major priorities.

  ‘How long is your visit to Britain, Mr Ankrah?’ Skinner asked, as the pleasantries drew to an end.

  ‘This is my second week. I leave on Friday. I spent all of last week with the Met, yesterday I was in Manchester, and tomorrow and Thursday, I will spend with Strathclyde. I am very pleased. You are the first Chief Officer who has met me personally. The others have sent their press officers or executive assistants.’

  Inwardly, Skinner cursed himself for not thinking of delegating his guest to Alan Royston, but he kept a welcoming smile on his face. ‘What is your rank in Ghana?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Mr Martin’s equivalent in Accra: Head of Criminal Investigation.’

  ‘What sort of crime do you experience?’

  ‘Violence, robbery, rape, drugs: much the same as you, only more of it, and with less resources to fight against it.’

  ‘What have you seen so far on your visit?’

  Ankrah smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘I have seen many police stations, Mr Skinner, and I have seen criminals in court. But I have not seen any criminal investigations.’

  The DCC chuckled. ‘It’s easier to lay on lunch than crime. The major investigation which we have underway at the moment, is I’m afraid, stalled. Our only witness fled the country at the weekend.’ Martin glanced at him, wondering for a moment why he had only mentioned one inquiry, until he realised that he would not want to talk about Archergait’s murder with the Scottish Office people in the room.

  ‘Still, this is a very fine police office, and we will be happy to show it to you, and to let you see some of our people at work. I sympathise with your lack of resources, yet in my experience, however much you have, there will always be times when it just doesn’t seem to be enough.

  ‘On the other hand, there can be times when all those resources can be irrelevant. Take our current investigation, for example. Until we can uncover new lines of inquiry, by analysing the material which we have, most of our people are sitting on their hands.

  ‘There’s another essential resource, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ankrah. ‘Instinct. Some things are international. ’

  Skinner laughed out loud. ‘You’re right, of course, but that’s not what I was going to say. I was talking about criminal intelligence. The greatest gift that information technology has given investigators is the ability to source facts and figures about types of crime, and the people who specialise in them, more or less at the touch of a button.

  ‘I thought we’d start our tour with a visit to our intelligence-gathering unit.’

  The five rose and were moving towards the door, when there was a light knock and it opened. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Gerry Crossley, ‘but I have Superintendent Pringle on the line for DCS Martin. He says it’s very important.’

  Frowning, the Head of CID stepped into the outer office and picked up the phone which lay on the desk. His back was to Skinner as he spoke, but the DCC could see the change in his body language as his conversation developed. At last he replaced the phone, and stepped back into the doorway.

  ‘They’ve done it again, Boss,’ he said grimly. ‘But this time, they’ve changed the target. Raglan’s, the jeweller in Castle Street, was held up just over half an hour ago by three men wearing Hallowe’en masks, and carrying shotguns.’

  ‘Casualties?’ Tension gripped the room.

  ‘Not this time, thank God, but they’ve ripped off just about every gemstone in the place. I’d better go down there.’

  Skinner turned to his Ghanaian guest. ‘You say you haven’t seen any action since you’ve been here, Mr Ankrah.Well, now’s your chance. If your escorts will allow it, Andy and I will be pleased to take you to see a genuine, fresh, Scottish crime scene.’

  31

  Kwame Ankrah looked across Princes Street at the Castle, silhouetted by the morning sun, as its battlements frowned down on the street to which it had given its name. Changes in the traffic plan had made it a cul-de-sac, accessible only from George Street, but now the lower half was closed off completely, from Rose Street down.

  Skinner looked at the face which Raglan’s showed to the street. He had noticed the shop often, of course, but had never been inside, preferring to make his jewellery purchases from a family-owned business along in Frederick Street than from a public company which boasted two Royal crests above its doors.

  It was a feature of the Castle Street branch that very little stock was displayed in the double window on either side of the entrance. To the left, he saw an exquisitely fashioned suite of emerald pieces, all set in platinum, and to the right, the most expensive items from the most expensive watch brand on the market. Other than that, the shallow windows, with their wood-panelled backings, were empty, but there was no sign that they had been disturbed.

  The manager was slightly over-awed to see a large man in an impressive uniform, and an immaculately tailored African, step into his shop behind Martin.

  Dan Pringle was surprised also, but made no comment, save a brief nod to the DCC as he stepped across to the Head of CID. ‘Morning, Andy,’ he said, quietly. ‘God’s gift to enterprising thieves, this one was.

  ‘I don’t know how their insurers let them away with it, but there’s no video surveillance, and a police-linked alarm system which they actually switch off during the day. The only half-serious precaution is a button entry door, controlled from within the shop.’ The Superintendent shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. ‘The manager was just talking me through the stock loss.’ He turned and beckoned to the man, who stood in a doorway behind a glass-fronted counter, at the rear of the shop. Like every other display case in the big unit, it was strewn with empty trays.

  ‘Mr Rarity, this is DCS Martin,’ he began. ‘The officer in uniform is Deputy Chief Constable Skinner, the other gentleman . . .’

  Martin helped him out. ‘. . . is Mr Ankrah, an African visitor who was with Mr Skinner and me when the call came in. So, Mr Rarity, can you put an approximate value on the haul?’

  The man, who was in his fifties and who stood less than five feet six inches tall, chewed at his bottom lip. ‘At retail prices?’ he asked in a high squeaky voice. The Head of CID nodded. ‘I’ll need to work it out accurately, but approximately, the current sale value of our stock is around four and a half million pounds.’

  For an instant Martin felt his jaw drop and snapped it shut. Behind him he heard the sudden intake of Skinner’s breath and a gasp of surprise from Kwame Ankrah.

  ‘Four and a half-million,’ he repeated, keeping his tone matter-of-fact only with an effort. ‘Your customer profile may be top drawer, but nonetheless, how the hell do you come to be holding that level of stock?’

  Mr Rarity smiled, and gave a tiny, slightly hysterical, little laugh. ‘Oh we don’t always carry that much. We just happened to be holding an exceptionally large quantity of gemstones today.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Two reasons, really,’ the little man squeaked. ‘We’re a key branch in that we wholesale precious stones for other retailers and craftsmen. On top of that we have a few customers who purchase unset diamonds and other stones directly from us. One of them had warned us to expect him tomorrow, and had told us that he wanted to invest at least two and a half million sterling in quality diamonds of one carat and upwards.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Skinner, moving closer to the man, ‘but why would a buyer like that come to Edinburgh and to you, rather than going, say, to the diamond market in Antwerp?’

  Rarity fidgeted from one foot to another. ‘I couldn’t say,’ he muttered.

  ‘I could. It is because some people do not want to be seen buying such quantities of precious stones. ’The DCC looked down at Kwame Ankrah, standing beside him. ‘In my country, indeed on the whole of Africa, it is usual for black money - if I may use the term - to be converted into precious metals and stones. Traditionally they are the best hedges against inflation.

  ‘Naturally enough, the people making such investments do not want to be seen trading on the main exchanges. So they buy from private jewellers. In my experience, though, African criminals usually go to Switzerland or Australia to convert their illegal money.’

  The DCC looked at the little manager. ‘Where does your customer come from, Mr Rarity?’ he asked.

  ‘From St Petersburg.’ The answer was barely above a whisper.

  ‘And how does he pay you?’

  ‘In cash. Invariably in used US dollars. He carries it in a suitcase.’

  ‘A fucking big suitcase, I’ll bet. How often does he visit you?’

  Rarity hesitated. ‘Usually twice a year,’ he answered, at last. ‘Certainly, for the last three years, it’s been twice a year.’

  ‘Spending how much?’

  ‘From memory, the least he’s ever spent was three million dollars. His biggest single purchase was of stones worth eight million.’

  ‘So if I guessed that this man has put ten million dollars a year across your counter, for the last three years at least, I wouldn’t be far off the mark?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Something stirred within the little manager. ‘But in any event, it’s perfectly legal. A sale’s a sale. It’s not for me to ask any customer how he came by his money.’

  Skinner exhaled hard, the breath whistling through his teeth. ‘So are you saying to me that if the people who’ve been knocking over banks in this area walked in here and put one and a half million pounds on the counter, you’d sell them diamonds, no questions asked?’

  Rarity looked at the floor. ‘No. In that case, I suppose I’d alert you.’

  ‘But this chap’s a Russian, so it doesn’t count. Jesus! Do you have to clear transactions like these at Board level within your company?’

  ‘No. Managers have local autonomy.’

  The DCC laughed, harshly. ‘I’ll bet. So that if there’s a can to be carried . . . Meanwhile, with a ten-million dollar boost to your annual turnover, you’re probably the company’s star performer.’

  Rarity flushed.

  ‘What’s this man’s name?’ Skinner fired at him.

  ‘Malenko; Ivan Malenko.’

  ‘Do you have any proof that’s his real name?’

  ‘The first time he came here he showed us a passport.’

  ‘How does he communicate with you?’

  ‘By fax: always by fax, giving us about two weeks’ notice of his arrival, and the value and types of stones which he’d like to buy. I would put an order into our purchasing department and the gems would be delivered at least two working days in advance, to give me a chance to sort and evaluate them.’

  Skinner looked at Martin and raised his eyebrows. ‘Who would see that fax, Mr Rarity?’ he asked.

  The manager shrugged his narrow shoulders, bouncing the padding of his Chester Barrie suit. ‘Whoever picks it off the machine. It’s located upstairs in our general office.’

  ‘I see, so everyone on your staff would have known that you would have a large quantity of stones on the premises today.’

  ‘Could have known, Mr Skinner. I can’t say honestly that everyone would have.’

  ‘How large a staff do you have?’

  ‘Seven altogether, sir. Myself, Mrs Hall, who’s my deputy, two sales assistants, a craftsman, a trainee, and a book-keeper cum secretary.’

  ‘And where are they now?’

  ‘Upstairs in the general office.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All apart from Nick Williams, one of the sales assistants. He called in sick this morning.’

  Skinner looked at Pringle. ‘Dan, have . . .’

  The Superintendent nodded. ‘I’ve asked for a car to call at his address and bring him in, sir, unless he’s really unfit to leave the house.’

  ‘That’s good.’ The DCC turned towards Martin, stiff in his uniform. ‘Andy, you can see where we’re headed on this. I’d better take Kwame here back to Fettes, then I’m off to PC Brown’s funeral. Check in with me around five-thirty, would you. I ought to be back by then.’

  ‘Okay, Boss. See you then.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Skinner.’ The Ghanaian had a gentle smile on his face. ‘Do you think it would be possible for me to remain here for a while? This is really what I am here to study, and with respect to your fine officers, it would be more worthwhile for me to observe your detectives at work than to be shown them.’

  The big policeman laughed. ‘You’ll miss a good lunch, but that’s okay by me. You hang on with Andy and Dan for as long as you like. I’ll go back and entertain your escorts, and let them catch up with you later.’

  Half turned towards the door, he looked at Martin. ‘Once you’re finished here, Superintendent, I’d like you to take Mr Ankrah back to Fettes and show him our intelligence operation. After all, he must see something of our resources. When you’re there though, have them plug into Interpol and see if they can come up with anything from Russia on Mr Ivan Malenko.

  ‘If we can do them a favour in the course of this investigation, why not. Unless he reads British newspapers, he should still arrive here tomorrow. Maybe we should give him a proper welcome.’